


Partner

by TheGreatCatsby



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Western AU, and bond is a cowboy, and q is not a cowboy, and silva is also a cowboy, in which mallory is a sheriff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 16:50:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/624402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreatCatsby/pseuds/TheGreatCatsby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Western AU. Bond is called back to his small town to stop a man named Silva from assassinating the mayor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Partner

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt by Tumblr user craw101 for a 00Q Western AU. I've never written westerns or 00Q before, so hopefully some part of this is satisfactory. If not, please forgive me.

Bond hasn’t been by his hometown in quite awhile, mostly because he isn’t sure it is home. His mother once told him that home is where the heart is, but his heart wanders all over the place. His parents died a long time ago in a house fire, and Bond hasn’t seen his town since. 

Until now. He received a letter from the mayor, Mallory, a few weeks ago asking Bond to come back because there was a perceived assassination threat from one of the town newcomers, and the police force was dreadfully understaffed. And Bond was planning on being a policeman until he up and left, so he’d be perfect for the job. 

Bond doesn’t know why he accepts, doesn’t even know how Mallory found him, but he does. He’s been around, seen things, done things, and shot plenty of people, enough that he’s a good marksman. Good enough to protect the mayor. And he has a soft spot for Mallory. At one point, Mallory was a friend. 

When he returns the down is small as ever, shops and homes lining the single sandy street. Dust hovers in the air, kicked up for horses and foot-traffic, and a few townspeople stop to stare at him. The newcomer. 

He walks down the street, towards the Sheriff’s headquarters, and ignores the stares. 

 

The Sheriff is someone Bond hasn’t met before, a portly older man who motions for him to sit and tells him that Mallory will be down soon. 

Mallory arrives a few minutes later and briefs Bond: there’s a rogue gunslinger type named Silva who’s come into town recently, charmed everyone, but Mallory knows him and knows that Silva wants revenge. When Bond asks why, Mallory simply looks displeased. 

“It’s a long story,” he says. “Suffice it to say, we have a past. But I need you to find him and kill him, before he kills me. Think you can do that?” 

“Sounds easy enough,” Bond says. “How did you find me, anyway?” 

“Ah.” Mallory smiles. “That would be the work of our detective. He’s quite excellent, which is why he’ll be your partner.” 

Bond bristles. “I don’t need a partner, Mallory.” 

“I’d feel better if you had one,” Mallory says. “He can help you ferret out Silva’s plans like nobody else. He’s the best of the best.” 

Bond glares at him, and Mallory points to an adjacent room. “He’s in there,” he says. “Have fun.” And he walks away. 

Bond walks into the adjacent room and sees a young man typing up a report on a typewriter. He’s thin, pale, has messy dark hair, and wears glasses. Bond almost walks out of the room when he speaks up. “Who are you?”

“The name’s Bond. James Bond.” 

“Q. Detective Q.” He doesn’t look away from his report. 

Bond squints at Q, whose expression remains blank. “That your real name?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“My mother was not very creative.” 

Bond stares at him. Finally he holds out a hand. “Q,” he says, testing the letter on his tongue, making it mean a name. Q stands. 

“Bond,” Q says, smiling a little, and they shake on it. 

Even before they discuss their partnership, they seem to know that they are partners. 

 

They go to the saloon to talk, and Q tells Bond what he knows. “Silva’s more of a mystery than you,” he says over the noise of drunk men talking, hands wrapped around a pint of beer, though he doesn’t drink it. “He covers his tracks well, and he came out of the blue. Completely unexpected. Charmed the pants off all the women and some of the men in town and then disappeared again. We need to figure out where he’s staying, what he has at his disposal, and when he plans to strike.” 

Bond gulps down his drink. “Sounds like you have a good plan. What do you need me for?” 

Q looks at him oddly. “To pull the trigger.” 

Bond raises an eyebrow. “A detective who doesn’t use guns?” 

“I do,” Q says, “but I prefer not to. I am more talented in investigation than mindless gun fights.” 

“They aren’t mindless,” Bond protests. 

“Tell yourself what you will,” Q mutters. 

Later, they go back to Q’s place, located above the general store. Mallory’s goodwill has allowed Bond a bed with Q, which turns out to be a cot. Q has a lot of books, and a desk in his cramped living space, and tea. Plenty of tea. Bond wonders how he hasn’t ended up living in a big city out east yet. 

“Don’t disturb me,” Q tells him as Bond lies down on his cot. “My research is very important to me, and I’d rather not be distracted.” 

Then he turns to his desk and starts flipping through a stack of papers. 

“What are those?” Bond asks. 

“Everything I could dig up on Silva,” Q says. “Didn’t I tell you to be quiet?” 

Bond rolls his eyes. He can’t tell how Q thinks of him, whether Q doesn’t like him or whether this is just how Q is with everyone. He wonders if Q has any friends. 

He falls asleep to the sound of rustling papers. 

The next morning, Q looks excited as he sips on tea. He offered Bond some, but Bond isn’t the tea type, so he settles for watching Q talk. 

“I’ve found him,” Q says, “a house just on the outskirts of town. There are very few who live out there—less protection from rogues and what-not, but he does. It’s a big house, and I’m pretty sure I can get us inside.” 

“When?” 

“Now, if you like.” 

Bond raises an eyebrow at him. “Now? Really?” 

“I told you I’m good at my job.” 

“Of course you are.” 

“But I’d rather do it tonight,” Q adds. “We’ll have a bit more of the element of surprise on our side. He literally won’t see us coming. I hope you’re good with a gun, by the way.” 

“Why?” Bond asks. 

“Because Silva’s an excellent shot.” 

Bond decides not to let that bother him. He simply goes out behind Q’s building and holds an impromptu target practice for the rest of the day, while Q does whatever Q does. 

In the evening they eat, though Q doesn’t really have a lot of food, so Bond is forced to feel satisfied with soup. 

Q watches him for awhile before asking, “So, where have you been?”

“Around,” Bond says. “Traveling. Fighting. Burning off steam.” 

“Sounds exciting,” Q says. “I’ve never left.” 

“Would you like to?” 

Q frowns. “I don’t much like horses. And, well, I’m not about to walk all over the country.” 

“You’d do well in the cities,” Bond tells him, “what with all your books and intelligence and dislike of guns.” 

Q smiles. “If only,” he murmurs. “I’ve heard New York is fantastic.” 

“Where do you get the books, anyway?” 

“Mallory,” Q says, fondly. “He’s been like a father to me. He encourages my pursuit of intelligence, where others might not.” 

“What happened to your parents?” Bond asks, even though he shouldn’t, because that would lead to an uncomfortable conversation about his own parents. Still, he wants to know. Q is unlike anyone he’s met out west, and he wants to know what made him that way. 

“My mom died while giving birth,” Q says, looking darkly into his teacup. “A cowboy got her pregnant, then up and left. I was an orphan, and Mallory was kind.” He looks up at Bond. “That’s why I needed your help. I need someone to kill Silva.” 

“Because you’d rather not do it yourself,” Bond realizes. 

“I’m not a killer,” Q says, though without any malice. It’s simply a statement of fact. 

“And I am,” Bond says, equally without emotion. “You need someone to pull your triggers.” 

“I’d do it if there were no one else,” Q tells him, “but there is. There’s you.” 

“Then let’s hope I can,” Bond says. Q nods and looks back into his teacup, as if it might hold all the answers he seeks. 

 

Nightfalls, and Bond and Q head out to Silva’s house, which looms in the darkness. Bond wants to take horses, but Q insists on going by foot, because the horses would be noticeable. 

“What if we need to make a quick getaway?” Bond points out. 

“Hopefully, we won’t.” 

There’s a single candle burning in a window on the second floor. Q motions for Bond to follow him to the porch, where he does something fancy to the door lock with a bobby-pin. The door pops open, and they walk inside. 

They can’t see. Bond feels uneasy; he hates not being able to see, and he draws his gun. “Have you got a match?” he whispers. 

“No,” Q says, and takes his arm, guiding him forward. “But I’ve memorized the layout. Just keep your gun ready.” 

Q’s hand on his arm is comforting, and Bond allows his eyes to adjust as he’s pulled up the stairs and down a hallway. There’s light coming in from one of the doors, glowing in the hallway. Q leads Bond over and they both stand in front of the door. 

Q gestures at the door. 

Bond kicks it open because, well, surprise and points his gun into the room. 

Which is empty. 

From behind him comes a muffled yell and the sounds of struggling. 

Bond whips around and points the gun at the unknown attacker, who currently is holding Q in a death-like grip, hand covering his mouth. The figure steps, with Q, into the light. 

Silva is tall, taller than Bond, and more muscular. A rifle sits against his hip, ready to be drawn, and he holds a pistol to Q’s head. Q looks furious, which might have been amusing if Silva wasn’t holding him hostage at the moment. 

“Now, now, not such a clever boy, are we?” Silva murmurs to Q, who struggles. Silva only tightens his grip and looks up at Bond. “I’d put the weapon down, if I were you.” 

“Why?” Bond asks. 

“Do you really want me to shoot your friend?” Silva drawls, grinning. 

Bond grits his teeth. He hates getting close to people, because this happens. Those people are used against him. Like Q is being used against him. They haven’t even known each other for more than two days and Bond finds himself fond of the young man who was able to track him down when no one else could. He shakes his head. 

“Good. Then here’s what you’ll do. You’ll stay here and attend to your detective, and I will go to Mallory’s house, and you can pretend that you didn’t catch me in time,” Silva says. 

“Attend?” Bond asks, because Q looks fine. 

“Attend,” Silva repeats, and he pistol-whips Q in the head, and the young detective falls to the ground. Silva disappears into the darkness. 

“Q, are you alright?” Bond asks, kneeling down. There’s a gash on Q’s hairline that’s bleeding fairly heavily, and Q looks dazed as he focuses on Bond. 

“Fine,” Q answers, brushing Bond off. “We need to get him.” 

“We can’t reach him in time; we didn’t bring horses, remember?” 

“Right.” Q thinks. “Sorry about that. Bad foresight on my part.” 

“So what do we do now?” Bond asks, offering a hand to Q. Q takes it, and they both stand up. Q leans against the wall, eyes closed, breathing deeply. 

Then he opens his eyes and smiles at Bond. “Silva thinks Mallory’s at home, but I told him to stay in town tonight. Go to the sheriff’s office and you’ll find him. Hopefully before Silva figures it out. I’ll follow behind.” 

Bond stares at him. “What’ll you be doing?” 

“Gathering insurance just in case we don’t catch him,” Q says, gesturing towards Silva’s room. 

Bond nods and turns to leave when Q adds, “And Bond?” 

“Yes?” 

Q looks almost concerned, which is new, for him. “Do come back in one piece.” 

“I’ll try my best,” Bond says, and he’s off. 

True to word, Mallory is in the sheriff’s office, alone, everyone else having gotten back to their families, and considering that the only think between him and the outside world are glass windows and a wooden door, he’s done well for himself. He has a gun, and Bond manages to dig up some explosives used by miners for the nearby coal mines. He figures he’ll light-and-throw and hopes that they can outmatch Silva’s guns. 

And they wait. 

Mallory looks pale in the darkness, and he glances at Bond and says, “Thank you. For this. You didn’t have to come back.” 

“Was there any other way I could have responded to your letter?” Bond asks. 

“You could have ignored it. Pretended it never existed.” 

Bond shrugs. “But that would’ve left you alone. With the town sheriff.” 

“He isn’t half bad-“ 

“Q told me he can barely see and wouldn’t know a man from a horse.” 

“Q doesn’t like the sheriff much,” Mallory admits. “He works for me more than for him. But you have to understand, there’s not much crime here.” 

Bond hears a noise outside, the sound of fast galloping. He motions for Mallory to hide in the back room, and steps towards the door. 

He can see the silhouette of Silva through the windows, as he dismounts his horse and strides towards the door. He holds his gun steady, and the door opens. 

He shoots. And misses. 

Silva shoots back, and Bond dives behind a desk for cover. There’s a pause in the shooting, and Silva calls out, “I see the rogue cowboy has beaten me here.” 

Bond darts out from behind the desk and throws a lit explosive, which detonates a few feet from Silva, throwing him against the wall. The wooden floor catches fire, and Bond realizes that perhaps the explosives weren’t such a good idea. 

Silva crawls out of the wreckage, and Bond shoots, catching him in the arm, but Silva shoots back, and Bond has to duck out of the way again. 

“Where are you hiding him?” Silva snarls. “Who are you, to come between me and him? Do you know what he did? Do you?” 

Bond doesn’t say anything. 

“He killed my parents,” Silva continues, creaking footsteps getting closer. “He shot them. Don’t you think that gives me the right to kill him?” 

Bond thinks of the house fire that burned down his parents, thinks of how angry he was, how there was no one to kill in revenge so he turned to killing other people for other reasons instead. And he thinks, yes, Silva has the right. 

But he hasn’t heard Mallory’s side of the story, and Mallory is a friend. 

“Why did he kill them?” Bond calls out. 

Silva steps around the corner and grabs Bond by his shirt. The explosives he holds drop to the floor, rolling towards the fire, and Silva shoves him against the wall, puts the pistol to his head. “If it were your parents,” he hisses, “would you care why?” 

Bond can’t answer because there’s a gun at his head, and because he’s trying to move his hand, which holds his pistol, which would be really convenient. 

“Because your parents were murderers and liars,” a voice calls out from behind Silva. 

Silva turns around, loosening his grip enough for Bond to maneuver his pistol so that the barrel thrusts into Silva’s abdomen, and he shoots, and Silva jerks back and falls onto the floor, blood staining his shirt red. 

Q glares down at Silva’s prone form, illuminated by fire and looking as if he’s come from hell.

“Perfect timing,” Bond tells him. 

Q kneels down next to Silva and says, “Your parents decided to murder the previous mayor and steal money from the town bank, and never told you what they were doing. But they were criminals, and Mallory was the sheriff, and he had every right to kill them. And you have no right to kill him.” 

“I have the right to kill him,” Silva gasps, paling as the blood drains out of him. “You’re lying. My parents…were not-“ His eyes roll back in his head. Q stands and glares at Bond. 

“If you destroy my office, so help me, I will kill you myself,” he snaps, and runs past Bond. 

“Where are you going?” 

“To find Mallory and to put out this damn fire!” 

Bond turns around, just in time to see the explosives he’d dropped catch on fire themselves, and he shouts, “Q!” and then everything explodes. 

He’s thrown into the next room, against someone else, who cries out in shock. For a few moments there’s nothing but burning heat and smoke and Bond can’t see or breathe, and he’s coughing. 

“You idiot,” he hears Q yell beside him. “I will personal make sure that your life is a living hell! Do you know how much information I’ve lost?” 

“You keep some of it in your house,” Bond chokes. 

“And you’re lucky I do.” 

Bond reaches out towards Q’s voice and grabs a handful of shirt, and pulls. The rest of Q follows until they’re face-to-face. Q blinks at him, face stained with ash, indignant at being handled so. 

“What are you doing, Bond?” he asks. 

“Celebrating being alive,” Bond answers, and leans forward and kisses him. 

Q doesn’t fight back. He kisses Bond as well, and Bond deepens the kiss and then Q pulls away, coughs, and murmurs, “We’re still in a burning building, Bond.” 

Bond pulls back as well, looks at Q, and calls out, “Mallory!” 

“Here!” Mallory calls from ahead. 

Bond and Q stumble towards him, and Mallory grabs Bond’s hand and somehow, they navigate outside, stumbling into the street. 

The townspeople are gathered around the station, watching. Bond turns back-the fire has reached the rooftop and has engulfed the building. A few more minutes and they might not have been able to get out. 

In the glow of the fire Mallory laughs, and Bond looks at Q, who is staring in awe at the fire. Then he turns to Bond. 

“So I gather you’re leaving?” 

Bond grins. “Seems like you all need someone to pull your triggers.” 

“So you’ll stay,” Mallory says, “because I can fire the current sheriff. If you stay. You and Q seem to work well together.” 

Q rolls his eyes and Bond nods and says, “That would be good, I think.” 

“He’ll destroy the town before he saves it,” Q mutters. 

Bond’s grin widens. “Glad to be working with you too, Q.” 

Q pretends not to hear him, but he doesn’t leave either, and they watch the building burn itself to the ground.


End file.
